Went
to the North Perth house, took cakes chosen with care, raspberry, lime, vanilla,
apple, cream, custard, pastry, crumble, real fruit. Drove. Drove. Drove. Avoided
other’s duco, indicated with law abiding courtesy, yes sir, no sir, three bags
full sir, Paddington Street speed humps grunted twenty twenty twenty at my
shockies, padded down the sand path, wrapped cakes crinkled, bike shop shut,
bus stop empty, burnt out ute, sign posts to the right house, party house,
barbeque in the afternoon house, the abandoned party began at the verge, stumbled
past the wiper-snipper cowed cactus, smashed up the steps, stubbed out on the
garden path, broke on the veranda, spewed through the hall, the kitchen and
staggered on out into the art installation backyard, where still it seemed, men
danced, women danced, smoke curled, snags sizzled, onions sparked taste buds, dark
liquid swirled into jars, in corners, on grass, heads, shoulders, bodies
mounded together, thump, twang, bass mutter, bouncing ball words — shades,
shadows, traces — all still, still there but now morning sunlight harder than a
concrete head slam, exposed rot¸decay with glint and sparkle.
we cut the cakes
cream custard
road kill guts
squeezed out
we fell on it like wild
hungry puppies
